


this will have to serve

by alwaysbuddy



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fix-It of Sorts, Getting Back Together, Healing, Heavy Angst, Internal Monologue, M/M, Permanent Injury, Post-Canon, Post-Season 16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:19:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5290481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysbuddy/pseuds/alwaysbuddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And, because he still doesn’t know what he wants to say, he asks instead, “How long you staying for?”</p><p>“A week.” Rafael shrugs, shaking his head. “Maybe a week and a half. Depends.”</p><p>“On?”</p><p>“How long you’re going to let me stay.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	this will have to serve

**Author's Note:**

> This is post-Season 16, but also post-Season 17 mid-season hiatus, set sometime in November or December '15. This also ignores the mid-season finale cliffhanger, and assumes that all turned out well in the end.

Bleary-eyed and weary, the sun knocks on his window, softly at dawn, and then much louder as the morning begins to pass.

In the same vein, Nick forces his eyes open, blinking the last vestiges of four-hour sleep away. It’d been another one of those nights; his leg had ached unforgivably, a sore, sharp thing, brought on by the sudden rain that hadn’t let up till a few hours before dawn. 

The clock on his dresser says nine. Late, compared to the punishingly early hours he used to wake up at, when he’d still been in New York. Then again, he’d had a purpose for doing so.

It’s an effort to push himself upright. His knee still throbs, feeling stiff from being in one position for too long. Nick despises these days. The days when he feels more off-kilter than usual, the days when he feels the tug in his joints and remembers that he’s not the man he used to be, anymore.

Nick rests his head in his hands, running his fingers through his hair absently. It’s Tuesday. Nine o’clock, Tuesday. Zara’s got school today, and after—no, not today, Maria’s got her today. Nick’s got her on Friday, but she’ll be going for a sleepover on the weekend, so he’ll only see her again next week.

It’s funny. He’d moved here to spend more time with his family, but it feels like nothing’s changed. He’d let Zara slip out of his fingers like a kite, and he’d given chase, and even though he’s finally caught up, the line’s still out of reach. 

_She can’t see you like this,_ Maria had told him, weeks ago, barely looking at him as she stood at the door. Taking in the situation, making a judgment call. _Not like this, Nick._

He’d wanted to scream, like what? _Like what, Maria?_ He’d wanted to yell, to let the heel of his palm meet the wall with more force than necessary, he’d wanted to tell her that there wasn’t a this, that he was fine—

But he wasn’t. Nick knows, he isn’t fine. 

_Not like this,_ she’d said, and Nick had met her eyes, heart heavy, because he knew things weren’t going fine. _I know,_ he’d replied, soft, and she was surprised that he acknowledged it, that he hadn’t been angry at her words. 

He’s not the man he used to be. Not anymore.

Nick pushes the sheets away, pushes himself up, and steadies himself against the wall. The drywall feels as exhausted as he does, crumbling under his touch, leaving a fine trace of dust on his skin. It’s an old place, the apartment he’s rented, from an old woman who’d left to stay with her daughter and had needed to let the place out. 

It’s close to where Zara and Maria are, and that’s all he cares about. At least, it’s still a hundred and twelve miles nearer than where Gil is. Car trips and bus rides are long and arduous for him, still, but Nick still tries to visit when he can. It’s hard. But he’s trying.

He’d thought that after the PT, he’d get better. He’d be able to go back to going up stairs without relying heavily on a handrail, he’d be able to get into a chair without carefully lowering himself down first, he’d be able to get up and stand for as long as he liked.

The pain didn’t go away, though. The doctor had said there was nothing wrong with his leg, that he’d been healing fine, that he’d probably even get to stop using a cane after half a year. 

Nick reaches for the walking stick that’s propped up against the bedside dresser. It’s been eight months since the shooting. It hasn’t gotten any better (but it couldn’t get any worse).

Nine o’clock, Tuesday. He shuffles to the bathroom, and goes through the motions, even though he knows he probably won’t even leave the apartment today. It’s just routine. It’s familiar, while nothing else is, anymore.

The only other pieces of familiarity he gets are texts and calls from the squad. His old squad, who have moved on, who’ve already replaced him—and he’s thinking irrationally, he knows. They’re short-staffed, and bringing on a new guy was a necessary move, but—

Are things different there, or are they still the same?

Liv had sent a new photograph of Noah, the night before, while he’d still been consoling a beer in the kitchenette. He’s grown, the kid has. Nick had smiled, tapping a finger against the bottle, before sending back, _Take more photos of him. You’ll miss this part before you even know it’s gone._

The wait hadn’t been long, but Nick knew Liv had caught something. Ever perceptive, she’d replied, _Speaking from experience?_

Nick had taken a long swig, before letting his fingers run free. _Probably. Maybe I just miss the team. Carisi was enough of a child, anyway. Does that count as babysitting?_

 _Funny._ Nick had let out a small laugh. _He’s doing well. All of them are._

A moment had passed, before another line popped up. _We miss you too._

Just remembering the words makes his chest constrict in a way he hadn’t thought possible. It’s ridiculous, maybe, to feel a loss for your colleagues that much—but they were more than that. Four years, they were his friends. They witnessed moments he’d never trust his family with, and were there even though so much went down.

He makes his way to the kitchen counter, and picks up his phone from where he’d left it, last night. The thread of messages is still open. _Tell them I said hi._

 _Tell them yourself. Or, well, at least just one of them,_ had been Liv’s last mysterious reply, before she’d wished him goodnight.

He still isn’t sure what she’d meant by that, but then again, she might just mean that someone’s going to drop him a line. He’d just heard from Carisi a little while ago, telling him how Amanda was doing, and how she’d like to hear from him once she’s gotten everything settled with the baby. _Still no name,_ Carisi had said, sounding genuinely joyful speaking about Amanda’s kid. Nick wonders how close they’ve gotten, since he’s left. _Fin’s still trying to convince her to name it after him._

No chance in hell. Nick knows Amanda. It’ll be something that reminds her of home, but not the people. Something that rolls off the tongue easy, something that matches the kid’s smile—he probably has the same smile as her. A name that everyone will remember, but fondly.

 _Maybe she’ll name him Nicholas,_ he’d replied easily, and Carisi had snorted. 

And it’s nowhere near any sort of sudden realisation, but god, does he long for New York again. The thought strays by every now and then, but it’s been especially manifest recently, with the news he’s been getting, and the way things aren’t working out for him here.

They have to, he thinks desperately. Things have to work out, he has to make them work.

He just doesn’t know how.

It nearly makes him jump when a curt knock sounds on the door. His door? He hadn’t been expecting anyone, and really—he doesn’t have many people lining up to meet with him, these days. 

Nick steps over, leaning on his stick, and he peers through the peephole.

Hold on.

“What the—” Nick pulls back, and opens the door, frowning. “Rafael? What are you doing here?”

“Sightseeing,” Rafael answers dryly, and of all the people. If this isn’t a surprise. Nick supposes this was what Liv’s cryptic message meant. Nick takes him in for a brief moment, despite the confusion; no suit and tie, just a casual polo, and his coat tucked around him. He looks good. He always has, but Nick hasn’t seen him casually dressed in a long time. Better than good, really. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, sure, I mean.” Nick hobbles back a step, and motions inwards. 

Rafael enters the apartment, setting his single suitcase by the door before glancing around, surveying the place. Probably judging Nick for letting himself go like this already. Nick waits, closing the door behind him, and moving back to the counter, where he leans against it. “Eight months,” Rafael murmurs, “it’s been a while.”

“It has,” Nick agrees, watching his movements with a keen eye. “ _Qué raro._ You still haven’t explained why you’re here.”

“ _Lo siento._ ” Rafael matches his gaze evenly for the first time since he’d shown up, and there’s something in his eyes that makes Nick forget about all the things he’d been thinking about earlier, for just a moment. “I’m in town for a conference. Liv gave me your address. It’s been eight months.”

“It has,” Nick says. And, because he still doesn’t know what he wants to say, he asks instead, “How long you staying for?”

“A week.” Rafael shrugs, shaking his head. “Maybe a week and a half. Depends.”

“On?”

“How long you’re going to let me stay.”

Nine-thirty, Tuesday. Nick stands at the counter of his barely functioning kitchenette, in his decrepit apartment, in the city that’s merely an ideal held simultaneously by a million too-hopeful hands, and feels his pulse thump unsteadily in his throat.

He’d left New York, and this along with it. It doesn’t seem to have left him.

“Yeah?” Nick’s voice sounds unnecessarily hoarse, and he clears his throat. “Hotels not good enough for you, anymore?”

Rafael’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Bed-sheet thread-counts aren’t quite up to standard, these days.”

“I suppose,” Nick says, and the joke ends there, when the words come out a little too sombrely than he wanted. “You here to check up on me? Did they send you? Or did you just want to see first-hand, how things have just gone to s—”

“ _Stop,_ ” Rafael cuts through, sounding firm, and Nick immediately falls silent. “Nick,” he says, softer now, gentler, like he’s trying to tame a wild animal into submission, much too cautious for Nick’s liking, and of all the people he thought wouldn’t treat him with kid gloves? “I’m not here to check up on you.”

“Then?” The same anger rises in him momentarily, but it’s dismissed within a second. Nick doesn’t allow his temper to get him, anymore. There isn’t any point left in letting it. “Tell me, Rafael. Why are you here?”

Rafael doesn’t let up. “For one reason,” he says, and he steps over to where Nick is, stopping where they’re separated by the counter. Rafael rests his palms on the counter-top, letting out a breath. The proximity, after this much time, is terrifyingly tempting. Nick doesn’t look away. “Because you left.”

“I left half a year ago,” Nick states.

“I know.”

“It’s taken this long.”

“It has.”

“You aren’t here for a conference, are you.”

“I’m not.”

Nick shakes his head. “Don’t do this to me, Barba.” Don’t do this to him, because Rafael shouldn’t be here at all. He should be in Manhattan, living the life he’s always lived, regardless of whether or not Nick is in it. Nick does the leaving. If Rafael is here—

“ _You_ left,” Rafael says, and he’s whispering now, like the walls are going to hear them, like the windows and the table and the chairs are going to hear his admissions of heart-ache, like they’re in a crowded room full of people and only Nick can hear these words. “You left, without notice, without even a single word. I had to hear it from _Liv._ ”

Nick couldn’t do it, then. He’d packed his bags, put in his papers, and arranged to finish his PT in L.A. instead of New York, so that he didn’t have to wait any more than he had to. So that he wouldn’t think about staying. A fresh start. Cut the rest of the kite lines. Watch them float away.

But Rafael Barba floated back with the new wind, and came to find him, instead of the other way around. Tangible, he’s here, in Nick’s apartment. Nick could touch him, could reach out and place a hand on his arm and feel the warmth of his skin through two layers of clothing and yet, only feel him. He wants to, almost desperately.

“Why’d you come, then?” Nick smiles, a little sadly. “I should be the one crawling back. Literally,” he adds, referring to the injury that seems to not want to quit him.

Rafael doesn’t smile, doesn’t frown, doesn’t scowl. He just says, so matter-of-factly, that it hurts to hear. “Because we both know you wouldn’t. Not for me.”

And—he’s wrong, he is, Rafael’s wrong, Nick would, he _would have_ —but Nick just says, “ _Estoy cansado._ ” He’s always tired. Tired of trying, tired of running. Tired of not telling himself the truth. “Rafael.”

“Nicholas.” He’s missed hearing his name in Rafael’s voice. The hand that Rafael had placed on the counter rises. It’s the soft brush of fingertips against his jaw that makes Nick close his eyes. The way Rafael presses his palm against Nick’s face is comforting. His thumb brushes against the corner of Nick’s mouth, and it breaks him. “Tell me.”

“Stay, just—stay,” Nick breathes, and it’s all Rafael needs to hear, before he’s kissing Nick, hard and fast, the way that used to keep Nick up at night just thinking about it, and Nick kisses back, more alive than he’s felt in weeks. Rafael’s throwing him a life-line, and he’d be crazy to not catch it, the same way he catches Rafael’s lip between his teeth and feels him sigh into his mouth. “Don’t go,” another kiss, and Nick’s whispering, “ _te deseo._ ”

Rafael pulls away, and rests their foreheads together. “One week,” he says, letting Nick curl his fingers into Rafael’s collar, rubbing his thumb against his pulse-point, “maybe one and a half.”

“It’s more than I’d ever expect.” Nick doesn’t want to let go of him, feeling as though he’ll disappear the second that he does, but the continuous standing is starting to give him the familiar feeling of imminent collapse, and he says, reluctantly, “My knee is starting to act up.”

Rafael helps him make his way over to the bed, a little wary, but Nick reaches for him and tugs him over, saying, “I won’t break.” _I’m already broken,_ he doesn’t say, and neither does Rafael, but he knows it’s the truth.

“I know you won’t.” Rafael kisses him on the mouth, and then under his ear, and then at the base of his throat. Nick curls his fingers into Rafael’s hair and exhales. “Nicholas.”

“Please.” 

Ten o’clock, Tuesday. Nick lets Rafael press him into the sheets, lets his hands feel across the expanse of his body like he’s relearning every curve and every angle again, lets himself come back to life. It’s good to feel. It’s really good to feel something other than pain, or worthlessness, or incomparable self-hate. 

The sun kisses their brows sweetly, pushing through the thin curtains like a curious visitor, a little while later. By then, they’re lying on the bed, Rafael’s head against Nick’s shoulder, faces illuminated by the light that’s coming through the window. Skin to skin, warmer than most of the days Nick spends here, now. It reminds him of when they’d do this, back in New York, when the snow would blanket the earth, five inches thick. Skin to skin, better than any heater or fireplace. 

“Does anyone know?”

“That I’m here? Everyone.”

“Do they know why?”

Rafael glances over at him. “Do you want them to know why?”

He doesn’t know if he could answer that.

“Is it because of Rollins?”

“No, no.” Nick is still for a while. “We were never—I never loved her, not like—not, I mean, we only ever slept together a few times.” They’d never let feelings get into it, though. But he’d cared. They’d cared about each other. It was enough for them. 

Rafael is quiet for a moment. “You never loved her like what?”

“Like—” Nick looks at Rafael, and there’s a moment where he thinks that he might not be able to say it. He thinks, maybe this is too much, and I can’t allow myself to feel this way. There’s a moment, where Nick doesn’t think he can admit—to himself—just what this means. But the moment passes. “ _Tú._ ”

Rafael breathes, and then kisses his neck. There aren’t any words that need to be said. 

One week. Maybe one and a half. He’ll take one and a half weeks over none at all. And maybe by then, he’ll have been put back on his feet again. 

He’ll hold out some hope. Till then, he knows it’s no time at all. 

His phone pings, a little later into the night, when they’re getting dinner at a local diner, just a street away, a place that Nick’s taken his daughter a few times before. 

It’s Amanda. She’s sent a photo of a pink-faced cherub, with straw-coloured hair. _Couldn’t name him Nick,_ reads the message, _but Ben’s good, you think?_

Nick smiles. He was right. Looks just like her. _It's perfect._

_And he’d probably like to meet his Uncle Nick someday, so don’t be a stranger! Please._

_I won’t._

Nick thinks about L.A., thinks about his job, thinks about his kids, and thinks about Maria. He thinks about what he’s running from, and what he’s really after. It doesn’t make sense that he can’t be after more than one thing. It doesn’t make any sense that he has to give up one thing for the other.

Compromises exist. Planes exist. The other side of a bed in a Manhattan apartment exists, calling his name, maybe once every couple of months.

Rafael Barba exists. Tangible, he sits, across from Nick, where he’s busy scowling at his phone, probably incensed at some case yet again, ignoring the milkshake that’s visibly melting in front of him. “Defense can eat my left shoe,” he mutters to himself, and Nick has to stifle a grin. He’s ridiculous. It’s adorable.

Nick loves him.

He turns back to his phone. Another message has come up. _Promise?_ it says.

Nick doesn’t hesitate. Not anymore. 

He’s not the man he used to be. But he could be better. And he will.

_I promise._

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Songs: Ohia's [Almost Was Good Enough](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JkB6PKYWl9s) and [Goodnight Lover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3MvBvlr74C0).
> 
> Happened because I rewatched the S16 finale and got sad about Amaro. Also, not enough Barmaro in this world at all.


End file.
